P is for
by wiccafaith
Summary: Lincoln Burrows is new to Fox River after getting caught with coke. He takes a liking to a tattooed prisoner Michael who beongs to T-Bag which spells trouble for them all. Slash - AU - no incest.
1. Prison

P is for…

CHAPTER I

P is for Prison.

"Lisa can you look after LJ for me? And no I'm not criticising you as a mom, I'm asking you not to judge me too harshly because I love my son and I'm gonna need you to be everything to him and try not to bias him against me while I'm… inside." Lincoln told his ex-girlfriend Lisa Rix who was also the mother of his child; fifteen year old Lincoln Junior, thanks to one drunken night when they had been eighteen.

Lisa nodded and hugged him but said "I think you going away to prison for possession of cocaine will be more damaging than anything I could say, Linc!"

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Just tell him I love him." He said as he was led away from the court room.

Twenty hours later and he was processed through Fox River State Penitentiary, a level one facility in Joliet, Illinois. Lincoln had always lived in Chicago; the city had seen him at his all time lows such as snorting cocaine and beating up strangers who had given him the wrong look at the wrong time – to his highs such as his relationship with Veronica Donovan and his weekends with his son LJ. But now he was at a different low in a different town. He was in jail with the only woman he ever loved having turned her back on him and now she was marrying another man, and his son was an angry, disappointed mess.

For the next seven years this would be his home. Iron bars and mouthy inmates. Shanks and rape and victims. Lincoln didn't care about the stigma that would attach itself to him once he was free of these walls – after all he had spent most of his teenage years in and out of juvenile centres – but he cared about how it would affect LJ, who hadn't been acting himself since shortly before Lincoln's arrest. Ever since Lincoln had been caught LJ had not called or visited.

"I'm Fernando Sucre." The Puerto Rican in Cell 40 introduced himself from the top bunk where he was sprawled and reading a magazine.

"Lincoln Burrows." He said shortly, and looked out of the bars to the rest of the prison. It was a gray depressing sight. Prisoners were caged, some were singing, most were talking. Many were smoking despite the 'no smoking' signs posted above each cell. Some were reading or playing cards. There was nothing interesting. Lincoln turned away but just as he did something – or should he say someone – caught his eye.

In a cell opposite on the level above was a… pretty (for lack of a better word) inmate with his dark hair short as it could get and tattoos covering his fit torso and arms. Lincoln couldn't make out what the tattoos were of but he was fascinated by the man. Lincoln wasn't gay – he had never fooled around in college (well, he had never made it to college) or had a crush on any guys he knew but something about this guy made his heart speed up and his dick pay attention.

"Hey, Sucra!" Lincoln said, not taking his eyes off of the man opposite him so he missed Sucre's eye roll at the mispronunciation of his name.

"It's Sucre." He corrected the large white guy.

"Yeah, that's what I said. Soo-cray. Who is that guy?" He asked, pointing to the tattooed man.

Sucre's eye brows shot up. He hadn't pegged the big man for a gay and it was only his first day, it seemed a little soon to be seeking out the comfort of a warm body. But then Sucre didn't know what the man was in for – or if he had a prior criminal record. Besides, it wasn't none of his business as long as the big guy stayed away from Sucre! "He's untouchable." Sucre told him.

Lincoln frowned. "No, I wasn't gonna- I'm not- I just like his tatts that's all!" Lincoln defended himself poorly.

"Uh huh. Well if I was you I'd like someone else's 'tatts'. Maybe one of those little fishes who came in same time as you. Because that man, my friend, he belongs to T-Bag."

Lincoln ignored Sucre's assumptions about his sexuality and watched as a slimy looking man with scraggly facial hair and a swagger in his walk approached the tattooed man in the cell and put a hand on his shoulder before dropping a sheet in front of the bars, obscuring Lincoln's view. "And T-Bag is?" He asked. The Puerto Rican had said it as if he should know, which meant the little man was really a big man inside.

"Theodore Bagwell. Kidnapped half a dozen boys and girls in Alabama before getting caught. Rumour mill says he raped and killed them, and wasn't too picky which way around that was. Man gives me the creeps. And he is a white supremacist too." Sucre shivered and went back to his magazine.

"Trailer Park Trifecta? Racist, paedophile, and stupid." Lincoln said, watching the sheet even though he couldn't see anything through it. Not from this far away.

"Nu uh. T-Bag isn't stupid. He's cunning. Least that is what the guards call him. I call him a bastard. But he owns the man so I'd stay away unless you want him to shank you."

"Thanks, Suckrey." Lincoln said absent mindedly as the lights went off in the Cell block with Lincoln still leaning against the bars watching the sheet.

(More with Michael next time!)


	2. Possession

P is for…

CHAPTER II

P is for Possession

Michael had noticed the new inmate – a rather rugged attractive man in his thirties – watching him from cell 40 where Sucre lay minding his own business. Sucre was good at that – he kept out of trouble with guards, gangs, and inmates. Westmoreland was the same. Few prisoners could manage that – Michael certainly hadn't been one of them.

He had been just sixteen when he had arrived at Fox River. Tried as an adult for his crime, receiving a 'life' sentence of twenty-five years. His lawyer had assured him that his sentence would be greatly reduced – and it had been. But by that time he had been in Fox River for four and a half years, already an adult, so he had stayed put. And long before that he had accepted T-Bag's offer of protection, moving from Westmoreland's cell to the paedophile's. And despite everything Michael couldn't honestly say he regretted it. Teddy had been good to him – especially recently.

Michael's mother Christina Rose had died when he was ten – cancer – leaving him in the merciless hands of foster parents. There had been a few good homes but the Carter couple hadn't wanted a twelve year old with enough issues to write a thesis on and the Morris family had had to stop the adoption proceedings when they had discovered that Anna was pregnant – they couldn't care for Michael and a newborn at the same time. He hadn't resented them but afterwards he had been a changed boy – he expected abuse, neglect, and rejection and it had come often and in many different forms. From the foster father who locked him up in a cupboard for days on end to the 'auntie' who wanted him to 'play' with her males friends – of whom there were many and few who stuck around longer than the night.

T-Bag wasn't all that bad in comparison. He let Michael eat, shower, sleep and after the fifth year he had stopped making Michael hold his pocket – he only had to do that now when the race fights were going strong or if one of T-Bag's men got uppity. T-Bag hadn't ever rented him out to other inmates – which was very good in Michael's opinion, although he still worried that T-Bag was saving up that favour for something big.

But for the first time in eight years (Michael was now twenty-five; he had stopped 'blushing' after the first year) Michael felt shame as T-Bag drew the curtain across signifying they wanted some 'alone' time together.

"What were you looking at, Pretty?" T-Bag's voice asked as he pulled Michael's head towards his bare crotch. Michael never answered, but as he blew T-Bag he noticed that the cold hearted paedophile kept his eyes on the outline of cell 40 through the sheet.

-xoxoxoxo-


	3. Pretty

P is for…

Chapter III

P is for Pretty

The first time T-Bag had laid eyes on Michael Scofield he had thought all his Christmases had come at once. Small for his age from years of malnutrition and beatings Michael had resembled a boy of fourteen but T-Bag had still been shocked (and infinitely pleased) to learn that the boy really had been a boy of only sixteen. Young enough to interest T-Bag and to be malleable so T-Bag could shape him how he saw fit.

It had always been a case of 'the carrot or the stick' when T-Bag stopped new victims. Now everyone knew that you would catch more flies with honey but sometimes it was just as satisfying – if not more so – to break the child with violence and threats. T-Bag had had trouble making the decision with the child – seeing that the stick had already been used to varying degrees of success but knowing a broken individual like Michael would be suspicious of anyone with carrots. So time had made the decision for him. He approached the kid a few times, making it clear what he wanted from him. He let the rumour mill do the rest of the work knowing the boy would get the full run down on what a truly awful man Theodore Bagwell really was, and the final touch had been Avocado raping the poor mite in the shower. It hadn't taken more than that to have the child arranging to transfer into T-Bag's cell, with Bellick doing business with T-Bag it hadn't been a problem.

To T-Bag's surprise the boy had grown into a good companion. Loyal if occasionally unwilling although he wouldn't lie and say he didn't enjoy making young Michael submit to him when the occasion did arise! The boy hadn't lost all of his spunk; his attitude and intelligence and kept T-Bag amused and intrigued. Michael had even managed to do some learning while he was locked away in prison and had earned himself a degree.

But truthfully T-Bag didn't keep Michael at his side for company, loyalty, or intelligence. He did it because he could, and because Michael was just so…

Pretty.

___ End of chapter III

Please review

Thanks to everyone who had reviewed! I love you.

And... as a Christmas gift I will immediately up load the next chapter so...

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!


	4. Powerless

P if for

Chapter IV

P is for Powerless

"Wakey, wakey, Pretty." T-Bag said, slapping a sleeping Michael lightly with his cold hand which was wet from having just washed his face. That was one thing that Michael Scofield failed miserable at – waking up on time. T-Bag leaned down and pressed his mouth to the boy's in a quick harsh kiss that made Michael's face screw up as T-Bag hadn't yet brushed his teeth.

"I'm not surprised you got beaten so often as a child if you could never get up on time!" T-Bag remarked and Michael gave the rapist a half hearted glare as his lethargic body struggled to wake up. He saw the other inmates filing out of the cell block towards the mess for breakfast and stood up to join them, ignoring the fowl taste of cum in his mouth from last nights session. His eyes caught sight of the new inmate he had spotted the night before and he just stood there for a full two minutes, staring at the man as he left his cell and followed Sucre out to the mess. T-Bag noticed and took him angrily by the elbow, forcing him to dress quickly before T-Bag dragged him out of the cell.

Reaching the mess, Michael's eyes immediately sought the new inmate again – who was sat at Sucre's table – and upon seeing this T-Bag got angry. "Don't make me remind you who you belong to, Pretty, because we both know you won't like it and I'm happier when you are happy boy, but don't mistake that for me honestly being interested in your happiness. I will cut you up unless you remember your place."

Michael's heart stopped for a minute and his eyes fell to the floor. He passed by Sucre's table without looking up but T-Bag saw how the new inmate's eyes watched Michael as they sat at their own regular table. T-Bag placed an arm around his boy's shoulders bring Michael uncomfortably close to T-Bag's unwashed body.

Michael fed himself quickly as if he was scared someone would take his food away and honestly he was – T-Bag was in a weird mood, possessive and unpredictable. Yes there was a certain power bias in their relationship; T-Bag held all the power but Michael didn't always feel like this… so… powerless.

"You coming?" T-Bag asked, standing up abruptly and yanking a startled Michael up with him. Michael glanced around and found that the mess was almost empty. He blushed and realised he must have gotten lost inside his own thoughts – something which he had relied upon to get him through the first few years at T-Bag's side but he rarely ever accidentally slipped off. It was a worrying sign.

Michael allowed himself to be dragged off to the showers where T-Bag and himself stripped down. Other than the way Teddy was pulling Michael around like he was some kind of doll – the paedophile was pretty much ignoring Michael and he wasn't sure how to take that.

Was Teddy bored with him? That could never be a good thing because then Teddy might stray and leave him to the wolves; or even worse give him to one of his gang. They all had a cruel glint to their eyes and not one of them cared for the way Michael had been kept by T-Bag for the past eight years.

Michael kept looking T-Bag under his lashes as they both showered and dried themselves off without a word being spoken. It was fifteen minutes of silence and Michael felt like he was being punished for something but he wasn't quiet sure what. Then Lincoln Burrows and Sucre walked though the door and Michael discreetly watched the taller man undress.

All of a sudden he found himself thrown against a wall with T-Bag's arm pressed up against his windpipe. Even as Michael struggled to breath he noticed that all of the inmates in the showers had turned to watch including Sucre's new cellie.

"You got something to tell me, boy!" T-Bag snarled. Michael's eyes were watering with shame and the struggle. He shook his head quickly hoping that would end the conflict quickly.

"Hey!" The new inmate's voice boomed over to them. Michael could see out of the corner of his eye as Sucre slinked away into the background. T-Bag let Michael go and he sunk to the floor, wheezing and coughing as T-Bag turned his attention to the new inmate.

"I'm sorry but what exactly is your take in all this? Why are you butting into business that ain't your concern?" T-Bag sauntered over to the larger man, an evil gleam in his eyes.

"No reason to rough the kid up like that, surely." Lincoln said.

T-Bag's eye brows shot up. He looked around the room as if to say 'can you believe this idiot?'. "I couldn't be hearing right, now could I? Because I just think I heard some big fish telling me what I can and cannot do to my property!" T-Bag shouted the last bit, his face was now red and his hands clenched into fists at his side. Michael saw all of this and knew he needed to defuse the situation before Lincoln ended up bloody on the floor and Teddy – his protector when he wasn't his tormentor – ended up in the SHU.

So he found his way to his feet and made his way carefully over the slippery titles towards Teddy. Reaching inside the older man's pocket he pulled it out and held on to it like a child holding a parent's hand while crossing the road – just like the way T-Bag had taught him to do so when he had first offered him protection.

"C'mon, Teddy. Let's go back to our cell. Please." Michael begged.

"See that?" T-Bag said to the room. "My boy here wants some loving." He crowed and a few of the white supremacists laughed crudely. Michael kept his eyes on T-Bag not letting them wonder hoping the rapist would believe him and return peacefully to their cell. "Best not to keep this young thing waiting. Come along, Pretty." T-Bag said and walked away with Michael holding his pocket.

"You shouldn't have interfered." Sucre muttered to Lincoln. "You have only made things ten times worse. For both you and Michael." Sucre walked off.

Michael knew what Teddy's problem was – he was jealous and angry. Which could only mean bad things.


	5. Patterns of behaviour

P is for V

Patterns (of Behaviour)

It was another week inside and Lincoln had managed to avoid Pre… avoid Michael who was sticking pretty close to T-Bag. Sucre approved of this new attitude and now Lincoln had a table of 'friends' (if they could be called that) to sit with at lunch and a group to hang out with. In no way were they gang minded but just the fact they were in a group gave the impression they were not a force to be threatened with. The group consisted of Linc, Sucre, Westmoreland, Sucre's cousin Manche Sanchez, and three others Williamson, Berk, and Garridon. Linc didn't know what all of them were in for, he knew the rumour that Westmoreland was supposedly the infamous DB Cooper, and he knew all about Sucre and his troubles with the beautiful Maricruz.

Things were just starting to settle own. Patterns were developing. And that was when Lincoln saw it happen. For the past few days he hadn't seen hide or hair of Michael and T-Bag except in their positions by the bleachers in the yard surrounded by the other white supremacists. Michael – who had been holding T-Bag's pocket in a way that was both disturbing and oddly natural – started to wonder off by himself near to the fence as he watched a load of new prisoners be brought in through the main gates. T-Bag walked over to the kid and kicked him in the back of his legs, not hard but enough that Michael fell to the ground of his knees. From that position he was dragged over to the bleachers where the some of the others were laughing while a few remained quiet, watchful. Lincoln snorted. "Why don't you do anything about that?" He called out to the nearest guard, disgusted with the lack of response by the two uniformed men. Linc knew prisons, he knew prison guards, but he also knew that the system was fucked and he hated it. And it was not in him to have the strength to ignore suffering and not lash out – at either T-Bag or the P.O.'s. At least if it was just verbal he wouldn't get into too much trouble.

Bellick heard Lincoln's words, his eyes turning cold faster than any good man's would and he strode over to the rowdy prisoner with purpose, his baton swinging in his hand. "You got something to say to me, Burrows?"

"Yeah," Linc retorted without thinking, "how come I say something loud and you amble over here as if to take me down a peg or two yet you don't care if T-Bag's over there beating that kid senseless?"

Bellick brought the stick down hard upon Linc, and he fell to the ground. Bellick leant down and whispered "Bagwell pays me well to turn the other eye to what he does with his property. And truthfully I'd do it for free." Linc rose quickly and threw himself at Bellick, a lucky punch in his rage had the man bleeding profusely. Another guard flew to Bellick's rescue and between the two of them Linc was manhandled out of the yard and into solitary. One week for attacking a guard.

But Linc wasn't in there for more than an hour before the sound of a woman's voice had the door busted opened. Light flooded his sight and suddenly an attractive brunet in a lab coat was next to him, asking him if he was okay.

"Huh?" He asked.

"Were you injured?" She repeated, taking the initiative and pulling and prodding his flesh.

"No… just my head. Hurts." Linc managed. He really did have the worst headache and his mind was a little fuzzy; unfocused like the beginnings of a hangover.

"Yeah – you have quiet a nasty bump there. I am the prison doc, Dr Tancredi. And you have a minor concussion." She revealed after flashing a light in his eyes and examining his bump.

"Figures." Linc said.

"It's not enough to have you moved to sick bay, unfortunately. Just try to stay awake until tonight and I'll have a guard check on you ever few hours. Do you know why you are in here?" She asked, putting her med kit away.

"Uh huh. Took a swing at a bull. The nasty one with mean eyes. Got a hell of an attitude too." Linc said, closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall.

"That's probably what he says about you. What is his attitude about?" She asked, knowing he was talking about Bellick because she had cleaned his nose up. After being told how he had gotten it she had come down here as soon as possible knowing the guards weren't exactly gentle when attacked – or whatever the real story was.

"Michael." Linc said shortly.

Tancredi froze, and then gave him a double take. "Michael Scofield? What kind of attitude?" Michael had been someone she had tried to help – to this day he remains her deepest failure.

"I asked why no one stopped Bagwell from beating the kid. And whatever else he does to him. Bellick got in my face about it." Linc knew he couldn't say the rest. It was just a con's word against a CO that Bellick was taking kick backs from the scum inside.

Sara nodded. "Michael was just a kid when he arrived inside, you know. Just sixteen. His crime… we aren't supposed to know everyone's crimes, it's supposed to keep us unbiased otherwise we might withhold treatment from a child molester just long enough to do him damage. Truth is we all know. Child molesters get outted first – my the media or a cop who wants the guy to suffer. T-Bag was outted less than four weeks inside – but he just acted like it made him famous, not infamous. Michael killed his foster parents. I looked into the case – apparently there was lots of misconduct because the couple had a good record and even raised a kid who grew up to be a policeman. That and the level of violence meant Michael was tried as an adult. When he arrived T-Bag preyed upon him almost immediately. One of the other inmates got their first – you know that huge guy in cell 14? Avocado he is called – he raped Michael badly. I stitched the kid up and convinced him to go into Administrative Segregation." Dr Tancredi took a breath, as if what was to come next was worse. "With two days he had started having nightmares. A week and he wouldn't eat. Thirteen days and he collapsed. I found the self harm marks on his skin when I attached the IV to get him some nourishment. I talked to him – had a psychiatrist talk to him – but he was adamant that he wanted to go back into Gen Pop. Three weeks later and I hear he transferred to T-Bag's cell."

"That sounds unpleasant."

"His lawyer found new evidence about a year later. Evidence that proved Michael had been severely abused; sexually and emotionally. Never any bruises or broken bones in the Mills household – no visits to the hospital, nothing on paper. Later the cop admitted to having repressed the memories of being locked in a cupboard for weeks on end during the summer. Another child from their care was called in and he told the judge about a scar Matthew Mills had on his upper thigh. Apparently the kid had given it to them. They looked into the present day lives of other foster kids – two were dead, one from an accidental drug over dose and another hung himself. Three were in therapy and one was a child molester himself. In light of the new evidence Michael had a choice – a reduced sentence or a change of prison to a lower level. But Michael chose a reduction in his sentence. The judge refused to call it manslaughter because technically Michael's life was never in imminent danger, and he refused to speak about the abuse personally."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Lincoln asked, his heart beating strongly in his chest. He felt sick and dizzy and he knew it wasn't because of his head injury.

Dr Tancredi smiled at him. "I can't help him anymore – he won't let me. He still has several years to serve. If you can get to him in Gen Pop, you can save his soul." She said and then left the room, leaving him to his darkness and dark thoughts.

More coming soon….


End file.
